A promise to say goodbye
by danecross
Summary: This is what might happen after the season finale where the Vaughn plot line was resolved and once again Michael was taken away by "spy types" with no explanation to Fi, Sam, or his mother. This is how I could maybe see him finding his way back to Miami.
1. Chapter 1

Michael stepped through the Lobby door to the non-descript upscale DC office building. At least Michael guessed he was in DC. The cold weather, the building materials used in the building and the lack of street nightlife all suggested DC. Larry's smile of welcome was more of a self satisfied smirk of a cat looking at his favorite mouse toy. "Welcome back," Larry said gesturing grandly. "How's your Kyrgyz?" Michael scanned the lobby for exits. "Eğer dışkı bir parça vardır."

"Close," Larry responded with a chuckle. The two men that had escorted him here stepped in through the lobby doors behind him. Larry produced a manila envelope and held it out to Michael. "Let's go kid, we've got a 20 hour flight to get you up to speed." "I have no intention of working with you, Larry." Larry shook his head, "You don't have a choice, the american government has decided you're assignment in Miami is done. It's time to move on, kid. You know how this plays out."

Michael shook his head in denial, but Larry's meaning gave him a chill. The Burn Notice was a cover story?

Larry sighed, "Come on, don't do this here with an audience. Insertion into our own society takes more than your average cover story. On the plane you can check your accounts, back pay was released once we had Vaughn and his organization locked down. You can appreciate the delicacy of the mission."

An agent behind him spoke up, "Your plane is 20 minutes from departure. It's time to go gentlemen."

"Wait," Michael stepped away from the agents behind him, "I need to leave a message for my mother." Larry shook his head. One of the agent's blocking the door raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Michael staggered once before crumpling unconscious to the floor, a tranquilizer dart jutting from his chest.

*6 months later*

Madeline Westen stood in her living room with a lit cigarette smoldering away, forgotten as she stared at a small framed picture sitting on the mantel. It was taken at her last birthday, an event she had declared would not be celebrated as any self respecting woman of her age does. She wasn't sure if Michael had been too preoccupied with a job to hear her or if it had been Fiona's influence, but all four of them had shown up (Michael, Fi, Sam, and Jesse) with a cake from the supermarket and a case of beer. It had been a wonderful night. She and Michael made it a full 2 hours without any mention of his childhood ruining the moment. Just her son at his finest, and a good group of friends. Maddie felt herself getting emotional staring at that moment.

It had been six months since a pair of steely-eyed government types had broken up a tender moment after the showdown at the hotel. Six months since she had seen or heard from Michael. He had promised that He would say goodbye this time. That he wouldn't vanish with no explanation. She had believed the promise. He was a different man than the emotionally wounded super spy that had been dropped in Miami with a Burn Notice. He had seemed more grounded, more comfortable in his own skin, more… at home. Maddie took a draw from her cigarette. But six months was a long time to question and doubt had begun to creep in. Michael had track record of this sort of thing.

Maddie blew smoke past her lips. Her birthday was at the end of the week. Nate had called. He was bringing the new family to visit. Maddie rolled her head trying to relieve some of the tension in her shoulders. She could feel everyone making plans around her birthday. Trying to make it into some fake, artificially happy event just to defy the pain caused by Michael's prolonged absence. It made her nervous, like there was a storm on the horizon. All of their motives were good, but these sort of things never worked out.

Maddie had woken up with a growing sense of dread. She wondered if she could declare that her birthday was not to be celebrated in any way and actually make it stick this time.

Michael forced himself up off the sleeping pallet. It was more effective to ignore his body's signals than to dwell on something unproductive and outside of his control. He followed the rich smell of Martina's Turkish coffee down a dim hallway into the kitchen. Her son Benoit gave Michael a gap toothed grin from his chair. Martina dropped a plate of warm bread and a small chunk of mutton for Michael before turning back to the stove. Benoit wiggled excitedly in his chair like a puppy. Selecting a piece of bread Michael inched the plate closer to Benoit and sat back in his chair to eat. Benoit's small fingers snaked out to snatch the meat. Martina caught the movement from the corner of her eye and yelled. *Hey, you've had your share greedy thief. Go finish your work for school.* Benoit sighed pitifully and turned sorrowful brown eyes to Michael. *I mean it,* his mother scolded. Martina turned back to her skillet to pull it from the heat. Benoit snatched the mutton, jumped from the table and raced out of the room.

Martina came to the table with a frown. *You spoil him,* she accused. *He has had his share and look at you, you have dropped too much weight. What will they think?*

*They will think there isn't enough food, and they would be right.* Michael answered.

*No, they will drag me in and punish me for taking your ration for my family.* Michael picked up the last piece of bread and carried his and Benoit's plate to the sink. This was an old argument. *I need to get going.* Martina watched him shrug into her husband's worn parka and exit through the back door.

He was careful to mimic her people's customs, he blended in very well. She glanced back to the plates he had placed in the sink. But inside their home behind shuttered windows he was different. It had taken her a few months to adjust to such unusual habits. She had been desperate when she had agreed to shelter a foreigner in her deceased husband's place. She no longer thought of the danger this man posed, rather it was hard not to want more from him.

Michael slowly made his way through the early dusk, to a burnt out building that had been a soviet era rocket casing factory. He ducked past the boarded up entrance and stopped to scan the icy landscape looking for any sign that he had been followed. He waited twenty minutes, but the only sign of movement was the wind drifting snow across the frozen ground. The first shift at the mine wasn't due for another 3 hours. Nobody was willingly out this early. He turned and wound his way into the depths of the building. Residual lead from the plant's previous life constructing atomic casing meant devices wouldn't pick up any conversation.

"I was beginning to think you had stood me up," Larry said in greeting. Michael ignored the taunt. "Meeting like this is dangerous. What do you want?" "The same thing I always want, to kill bad guys and get paid." Larry responded flippantly. Michael gave him a deadpan stare. "Ok," Larry shrugged, "You got me, I'm not really particular about who it is I get to kill."

"What do you want?" Michael repeated.

"I want you to hurry up and do your job, Michael."

Michael shook his head, "We're not ready. We need to know what the camera rotations are, when the guard shifts take place. Going in there unprepared is just going to get someone hurt and alert them that we are here."

"You are worried about someone getting hurt?" Larry asked stepping closer. "You remember that we are dealing with someone that has already killed thousands of his own countrymen right? Or is it you that is afraid of getting hurt?"

A slight shift of weight warned Michael. He threw up a block just in time to deflect Larry's fist from breaking his nose. He shifted and let the parka absorb the follow up body blow and connected with an elbow to the small of Larry's back. Larry grunted and mule kicked Michael into the wall. Michael pushed off the wall into a crouch waiting. Larry stared back a few moments before relaxing into a casual stance.

"We need to finish this up and go home, sources from other regions indicate that Orozova has found a buyer for the nerotoxin that went on walkabout from the Minsk lab. We need to know how Orozova got that toxin before Wednesday. We need his list of contacts. So stop sitting on your ass and do your job!"

Michael stood but kept his distance. It seemed that he had just passed some sort of test. The question he needed to figure out was what Larry had been testing him for. Michael changed tactics, rather than continue to point out the obvious, {there was not enough intell to do what Larry was asking} he pointed out the problem that Larry's timetable presented. "If I make a move now, Orozova will know that his compound has been infiltrated and every family here will pay with their lives."

Larry brightened, "Great, so there is a viable plan. When and where can I expect to get my data?"

Michael shook his head, "You're not listening. Orozova will kill every man, woman and child in this village."

Larry shrugged, "Let me guess… you've gotten unprofessionally attached to Martina and her brat, is that it?" Larry paused to consider Michael's dark expression. Could he strong arm Michael past this or was it easier to just give in on this one issue? "Fine, send them to me and I'll make sure they aren't here when Orozova goes nuclear."

In a dangerous low voice Michael reminded Larry, "I told you no women, no children. That was our deal. You agreed."

Larry scoffed, "That was just for that piece with Vaughn. You know how it is, you say and do whatever it takes to get the mission done." Michael didn't cave. Larry shook his head in disgust. "Kill the village, save the village… I don't care. It's your plan, operate any way you want so long as the American government get's Orozova's contacts before Wednesday." Larry turned to leave. At the doorway he paused, "Kid, You are playing a losing game. Miami changed you, made you weak. You shouldn't have come back."

Michael responded, "I don't recall having a choice."


	2. Chapter 2

*Chapter 2*

Michael stepped back from the drill and accepted the water bottle Amir offered to him. Hours spent working the drill left his body vibrating like a tuning fork. He took a few cautious sips of water and sat against the sloping stone wall. He had been assigned to Amir's crew today and they were working one of the deeper veins. It was dangerous, difficult work, but Amir was one of the stronger crew leads willing to let his people rest every few hours to keep them more alert. An alert miner was less likely to make a mistake that could get people killed. Michael handed the water bottle back to Amir.

A few yards behind them another team of two worked the second small exploratory drill. Small was a misleading descriptor. Small really only meant that it could be operated by a small 2-3 man team. One of these small drills could easily catch a pocket of porous rock, spin you off your feet and crush your rib cage. If a miner was paying attention they could prevent mortal injury by recognizing the slight shift in vibration and hitting a panic button before things got deadly. The drone of the other drill made Michael's head feel like cotton, stuffed and sluggish. Even with all the precautions of ear plugs and hearing protection muffs he could feel permanent damage occurring.

The fifth member of their team was the safety. One guy who's sole responsibility was to stay aware and notice if the vibrations of a drill had shifted, to notice if the equipment testing the air was indicating a loss of oxygen. Amir rotated his crew members through their positions. It was a good idea, but after eight hours Michael wasn't about to trust that another exhausted miner was adequately monitoring their safety. Pushing himself up from the wall Michael wandered back to check the gauges and check that Jyrgal was still awake. It was an excuse to stretch his sore muscles. It was also an exercise to keep himself alert.

He was still trying to decipher what Larry's test meant this morning. It was bad enough that he was missing something, it was humiliating that it was something that was obvious to Larry. He needed to step back and reanalyze. It occurred to him that perhaps Martina's observation was a clue. Did Larry think malnutrition was taking it's toll? Did he think it was affecting Michael's ability to asses and react to a situation? Did Larry launch a physical attack just to test that Michael was still physically capable of carrying out the mission? It wasn't a move Michael would have made, but this was Larry. There was no predicting what motivated Larry. Michael also hadn't seen a mirror in quite a while. Did he really look physically unsound?

He leaned over to check the oxygen gauges. Nothing abnormal. Stretching back he raised his arms up to touch the rock of the ceiling. He closed his eyes and took a moment to block out his surroundings so that he could asses his physical state.

Sore, tight, exhausted, and slightly light headed. He was definitely underweight, but he couldn't detect anything that hinted at incapacitated. It mostly resulted in a tired dullness that made effort something Michael had to demand. At worst it would make him react a split second slow, but training and experience would make up for that. After having experienced recovering from being shot in the chest, this seemed trivial. A tremor he would have missed if he hadn't been concentrating sent goose bumps skittering up into his scalp. Michael's eyes snapped open and he shouted for Amir's attention.

Amir stood and took few steps away from the drill when the floor caved. The deafening roar emitted from the rock forced Michael to clutch his head. The rock beneath his feet writhed throwing him to his knees. Slivers rained from the tunnel ceiling, slicing through anything softer than stone. The portable lights burst in a shower sparks, plunging everything into complete darkness. The echoes died slowly to silence.

Sam twisted a beer bottle between his fingers watching the last few sips slosh back and forth. He was quietly sitting at the end of the bar alone. And if that didn't alert you that something was wrong, let me give you a little refresher course on Same Axe. Sam Axe is a social drinker. He can walk into any bar at any time and be chumming it up with the inhabitants, companionably regaling each other with stories from a shared past they will never realize Sam wasn't in. Second, Sam's charm stemmed from a natural tendency toward good humor and extroversion…

Sam sighed. Internal, witty subtext aside, he wasn't feeling himself. Last night he had failed to catch a peeping tom that a neighborhood watch had hired him for. Sure he would get another chance and no one was technically hurt. And yes, he needed the money, why else would he stoop to a job so below his skill set when there wasn't a lovely lady involved. Sam thought of himself as the type of guy to always see the opportunity of a situation. If you are going out and it happens to be raining, that's great! It means the ladies will be looking for someone to amuse them indoors, and that was Sam's specialty. On the other side of the coin, it also meant you didn't have to worry as much about containment for any job that involved explosives. You may not worry about explosives on a day to day basis, but then you probably don't have someone like Fi in your life.

Sam put the bottle down and stared out at the sun drenched people enjoying the beach, enjoying each other. Sam signaled the bartender for another beer. He missed Mikey. He worried that Mikey was in over his head with no one around to pull him out. The only way his friend would survive this long to be able to return to Miami is if he had found some one that could fill Sam's shoes. Sam wanted to see his friend again, but the thought of having anyone take Sam's place in Mike's life hurt a whole hell of a lot.

The bartender knocked on the bar to get Sam's attention. "Phone's for you Sam. You want me to keep your next beer on ice until you are done?" Sam puzzled through what the guy was saying trying to grasp the meaning. He glanced back to the pay phone on the wall and the receiver dangling as it waited to be picked up. "Uh, yeah, thanks man." Sam answered headed toward the pay phone.

"Hello?" he answered cautiously.

"Sam Axe, you navy SEAL types are so predictable. Just so you know, it should bother you that I knew exactly where you would be at 10:30 in the morning."

"Well, well, if it isn't my least favorite sociopath, what can I **NOT** do for you today?" Sam answered. Sam brightened, he would be unable to connect Larry to Michael. Now there was a silver lining for not knowing where Michael was. Sam felt his old self returning. Telling Larry he could go eff himself was an opportunity he wouldn't miss.


	3. Chapter 3

*Chapter 3*

Fi slipped out of her car and tugged at the elevated hem of her slinky Nico Didonna dress. She loved this dress. It was good luck. She had worn it that day she had sauntered into a cheap motel room to find a certain burned spy who loved her. Fi smiled at the memory. She had felt so in control, powerful. She had walked right in and struck a jaunty pose while Michael looked about like he had just woken up, his hair mussed, a confused expression in his eyes, looking at her like she was a vision. Damn, that had been a good day. Fiona hesitated allowing herself to enjoy the memory before her present reality settled back around her like a smothering fire retardant blanket.

She reached up and knocked on Maddie's door. She felt the material of her dress catch again. The dress was meant to slide across bare skin. She should have worn the Felipe Oliveira Baptista pantsuit instead but good sense didn't seem to be the pervasive mood for her these days. She rolled her eyes and calmed herself with the promise that if they didn't leave her be she would enjoy delving out the violence they so obviously would be asking for.

Sam answered the door. He was amped up on something and called out her name in welcome. Something was definitely going on. "Sam," she greeted sauntering past him into the living room/dining room. Apparently she was the last one to the party. Jesse had already started a beer and Maddie sat at the table with a half full ashtray.

"Fi, what happened!" Maddie cried jumping up from the table.

Fi shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle," she answered taking a seat at the table and raising her chin defiantly. Anyone who knew what was good for them would let the subject drop. Maddie dropped back into her seat, picked up her cigarette and tried not to look concerned. Jesse stared at his beer bottle like he had never read the caloric breakout before. Sam stared at her struggling against his natural tendency to barge right into a dangerous situation.

For once Sam, don't do it, Fiona silently willed at him.

Sam looked at Jesse. He struggled to get back to the topic he had called everyone together to discuss. "Um…" He glanced at Maddie. He was not, under any circumstances going to mention the tan ace bandage wrapped around Fiona's thigh. He opened his mouth to talk about the phone call he had gotten that morning but the words that actually escaped were "Are you alright?"

Everyone froze. Sam swore the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. The air felt charged like that split second before the movie goes into slow motion so that the audience can really appreciate the action of the table getting flipped back to reveal dual H&K MP5/10 submachine guns spewing deadly ribbons of lead at Sam's head. Maddie jumped up, jolting the table in her haste and causing Sam to jump. "Here Fi, let me get you a drink," She rushed into the kitchen and back setting a beer in front of Fi. Giving Sam her best death glare Fi accepted the peace offering.

Jesse cleared his throat. "So, Sam what's your big news?"

Sam perked up in a glad you asked sort of way. "I found a very lucrative job for us."

Jesse nodded in interest. Fi sipped her beer. Maddie looked at Sam expectantly. This is where Michael would have interjected, "What's the catch?" All four of them could almost hear the question as if he were with them. It visibly raised their spirits and Sam hedged just as if Michael had actually been in the room expecting an answer.

"Well, you know, any job has it's unknown quantities," Sam stalled. Trying to think how to spin this in the best light. "All we have to do is stash a package for a …friend." Sam actually choked on saying the word friend. "He says he'll pay 100 grand and all we gotta' do is keep it safe and hidden until he comes to get it."

"100 grand," Jesse whistled. "What's he smuggling? The queens jewels? A nuke?"

Fi sat up in interest. Her share of 100 grand would go a long way to keeping her shopping and distracted from the depression Michael had caused.

Maddie shook her head. "100 thousand sounds like a lot of trouble. Nobody just gives away that kind of cash."

Sam nodded. This just wasn't the same without Mikey. None of them had picked up on how he had said friend. Mike would have been all over that. He missed the game of trying to charm Michael into a job and Michael knowing exactly what he was doing and calling him on it. "Maddie's right. I actually don't trust this guy to do anything less than murder and steal for the fun of it. The package most likely will be illegal and dangerous. It doesn't bode well that one of Larry's stipulations was that the contents were not our business and that we were not to open it under any circumstances."

"Larry!" Fiona exploded. "What the hell are you thinking? The only reason to accept any job from him is for a chance to put him behind some crosshairs and pull the trigger."

Jessie nodded, "Maybe that's a reason to accept the job. Look, the guy is the closest thing to a super villain I've ever met. Maybe we need to accept the job just so we can take a look at what he's hiding. Then we can turn it over to the proper authorities. We could be looking at diverting the next Oklahoma City bombing."

Maddie sighed, "From the stories I've heard, I don't like the thought of any of you dealing with this guy."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, "All true, but I just can't get it out of my head that for 100 thousand we could probably buy ourselves a clue as to where Michael is."


	4. Chapter 4

*Chapter 4*

Michael jerked back to consciousness. He gasped and immediately choked on the debris in the air. He had to claw his way out from under a blanket of rock before he could pull the handkerchief around his neck up over his nose and mouth. He lay still for a moment panting from exertion. A broken rib clicked with every breath. It wasn't any more or less painful than any other battered part of his body. For future reference, getting pummeled by stone was not something he wanted to do again. His head pounded. Sleep was sinfully appealing. Just the thought of dozing off for a few more seconds... But he was alive and to stay that way he needed to get moving. There was no telling how structurally unsound the tunnel had become. Time simple wasn't a luxury he could aford.

There was no light anywhere, and it made his eyes hurt straining to register something, anything. He reached up to try the switch on his headlamp before realizing his helmet was gone. He rolled slightly to get access to the flashlight attached to his belt. Turning it on didn't gain him much visibility. The air was thick with dust. It shifted eerily creating shapes, obscuring others. Watching it gave Michael a sense of vertigo.

"Jyrgal?" Michael croaked softly. He couldn't hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. The tunnel was too unstable to risk calling louder. Michael closed his eyes and tried to orient himself based on where Jyrgal had stood when the false floor had collapsed. He had been behind and to his right. Using the flashlight he tried to decipher what angle the cascade of rock he was lying in had spun him. It was a futile effort, but it made him feel somewhat in control. In the end it really just came down to luck.

Carefully, he inched his way forward over the loose sediment until he made the wall. Choosing what he thought was Jyrgal's direction, he crept keeping one hand on the wall. Making way became easier as the rock covering the floor thinned. Michael found Jyrgal propped against the beaten oxygen monitoring equipment. He was clutching a bloody section of his pants leg, staring blankly at the light cast by Michael's flashlight. Shock made Jyrgal useless. Michael dropped beside him long enough to get the man's headlamp working and a pressure tourniquet wrapped above the wound. "Stay here!" Michael mouthed. Jyrgal didn't respond but Michael doubted he would be going anywhere on his own. Michael found Jyrgal's coil of rope and tied it to a support on the O2 monitor. Tying the other end to his own belt, Michael hitched the excess over his shoulder and headed back the way he had come, keeping one hand on the tunnel wall.

"Fiona, I need your help in the kitchen." Maddie demanded

Fiona looked up from her cards. "Now?" She was about to lay down a high value meld sure to cause a collective groan from the golden girls seated around the table. She had waited two rounds for this opportunity to rub Deloris's stretched and tucked face in the snide remarks she had been making about Fiona's points didn't care that the woman was pushing ninety.

She also didn't care to dwell on the fact that Deloris had a valid grip. She had broken some cardinal rules established for inner circles of the canasta ring. Her first strike was always that she was under the age of 50, but that was something she was used to dealing with. Second had been arriving late, ten past to be exact. Third had been her play. She had fumbled some rudimentary strategy playing the river. She was distracted and simply wasn't playing at the top of her game.

Fi suppressed an evil grin. That was about to change. This play would give them something to talk about for the rest of the week. Fi started moving the cards around in her hand, reorienting them for their maximum effect. Sometimes it was the small wins that got you through the day.

If Maddie had any idea how much Fi needed this she wouldn't have made the demand. But Fi was too good at playing cool. It was her one advantage against women who had years of experience on her. Maddie could wait, Fi turned back to her hand double checking that she hadn't missed any potential weakness for her canasta smack down.

"Fiona!"

Fi jumped in her seat. Deloris gave her a smug look. "Young people never listen. You may as well be talking to a chunk of cheese, Madeline." Fi felt her face flash hot. Deloris was from Wisconsin. So any snide comment that she could somehow relate to cheese made her feel like the "queen of the world" in a titanic, Celine Dion kind of moment. Fi scowled. Fine, she would hurry along, but she wasn't going to be pleasant about it. Fi laid down her cards and stomped her way into the kitchen.

Maddie stood at the counter fidgeting with her carton of cigarettes. "I need a smoke," Maddie muttered leading the way out the back door. Fi hesitated. Should she run to the car for a gun before walking into Maddie's very obvious ambush? She considered whether a gun would actually do her any good. Slowly Fi walked out the back door to join Maddie on the stone walk between the house and the garage.

Maddie stood holding an unlit cigarette in the air looking at Fi with a pinched face. "What's going on with you." She demanded. The unlit cigarette worried Fi. Her best shot of avoiding this confrontation was to wait Madeline out. "What do you mean?" Fi asked smoothing her face into a semblance of innocence.

"It's a clammy 102 degrees today and you are wearing a jacket," Madeline jabbed her fingers at Fi in accusation.

"Oh, that? It's a lovely Vivian Lee ensemble. I couldn't bear to break it up." Fi said with a smile.

"Don't give me that!" Maddie snapped. "Take the jacket off. I can see you sweating."

"What is this really about?" Fi asked, changing the subject.

Maddie paused listening to the typical day to day noises of neighborhood. Some one was mowing a lawn. Kids were squealing in the distance to the background staccato of a sprinkler. The occasional car rushed by. She raised a hand to her temple and turned back to Fi. "Are you cutting yourself?" She asked in a low voice.

"What!" Fi blanched in surprise. "Is that what you think?"

"What am I supposed to think?" Maddie countered. "O magazine had a piece on identifying behavior problems and the quiz says you are either an abused spouse or a teenager who cuts themselves. Last I checked you aren't married. But every time I see you its **nothing I can't handle** or **I tripped** **or something distracted me while mixing up a batch of plastiqe**." Maddie shifted nervously, "You know Nate went through something similar the first time Michael took off."

"Michael didn't take off. He was taken. There is a difference. And I'm not hurting myself on purpose," Fiona insisted.

Maddie studied her. Fi had begun to tremble. Maddie shrugged, "Ok then, take the jacket off and prove me wrong."

"I don't have to put up with this." Fi declared and brushed past Maddie headed for the street.

"Sit your ass down. I'm not finished," Maddie yelled. Fi hesitated. She could feel the canasta women inside listening through the window. What a horrible nightmare! Wasn't her life bad enough without scenes like this. But since it was Michael's mother she chose to give her another 5 minutes.

Maddie sighed, "I'm just saying, you don't deserve this. I can't tell you how often I've wished…" Maddie shook here head and turned away from Fi. Maddie continued in an emotionally choked voice, "I'm sorry I raised such an insensitive, self-centered boy. I hate that he's done this to you. You deserve better. We all do."

Fi hugged herself tightly, unsure how to proceed. "Maddie? It's going to work out. He's coming back."

"No." Maddie shook her head turning back to Fi. "He's not. I'm his mother. I don't have a choice, but you do. You need to move on."

"Ha," Fi barked loudly. This was too much. The hold she had on her temper was slipping. "Don't patronize me. I spent five years trying to get over your son and it almost killed me, literally. Do you want to see those scars also?" Fi jerked off her jacket to show Maddie her mottled black and blue shoulders. "I didn't do this. A guy named Janez with a Harley and a foul disposition towards his wife did this. You damn well better believe he wasn't walking anywhere by the time I finished with him."

Maddie gave her a look of concern. "Just because you didn't inflict the damage doesn't mean you didn't bring this on yourself."

Fi's laugh had a tinge of hysterics. "Why do you think I'm in Miami? It isn't exactly the destination of choice for an Irish girl exiled from her home. I didn't choose to love Michael, but you better damn well believe that I won't be moving on until I see your son in the ground." Fi turned and stalked out of the yard.


	5. Chapter 5

*Chapter 5*

-Dream sequence-

Michael plunged beneath the surface of the ocean. Thrashing he fought to free himself from his suit coat. The current tumbled him sideways. Silver bubbles of spent breath darted around him like minnows. He kicked off his shoes and they drifted away toward the darkness. His lungs burned for air. The wet material bound his arms behind his back. Motes of black gathered at the edges of his vision. Giving up on his arms, Michael kicked toward the light. His head breached and he gasped. The ocean chop broke across the side of his head burning his nose with salt. He spit seawater from his mouth and tried to time his breathing to the troughs between the waves. The flat turquoise hue of the sky hinted that he was no longer around the 41°00'N latitude. With renewed strength Michael grappled with his suit coat. The expensive fabric suddenly gave with a guttural tear allowing Michael the satisfaction of flinging it. Estimating the direction of land from a few

distant seagulls, Michael began to swim.

Michael stumbled exhausted from the surf. The sandy shore was deserted and undeveloped. He studied the area trying to place where he was. He felt water logged, his skin rippled and pruny from the hours in the water. The salt had left his lips chapped and his eyes gritty. He needed some fresh water to replace what the ocean had drained from him. He blinked and noticed Fiona standing beside him. She had one hand up shading her eyes, and stared up at him in exasperation. She stood defiantly proud, the wind tugging at the hem of her dress. Her eyes challenging, she made him feel alive. The electricity between them gave Michael a buzz. "You found me?" He said with a questioning smile. Fi rolled her eyes. "Of course," she answered. "The question is where." He glanced down the shore one way and then the other confused. Nothing was familiar; Fi was the only known quantity to this puzzle. He stepped toward her. She grabbed his arm and he wound up flat on his back. Fi dropped atop him and splayed her hands across his chest.

He chuckled despite the pain in his side. Cast in shadow by the sun, she leaned forward and nuzzled his neck. He felt her warm breath feather against his skin. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt. "Mikhail" she crooned.

"?"

The horizon skewed. The heat of the sun bleached the color from his surroundings. His skin burned. An incessant buzzing droned in his ears. His body ached all the way to the deep tissue.

"Mikhail"

"Hunh?"

Michael struggled to ease the weight on his chest. He blinked disoriented by the suddenly dim landscape. Soft fingers brushed his forehead caressing a lock of his hair back. He could feel his pulse pounding in his sore head. He recognized the sparse furnishings of Martina's home. A dim lamp teetered on a foldout table beside his bed. His heart clenched making him gasp.

*Shush shush,* Martina soothed. She sat straddling him. Her silhouette painfully reminding him of Fi. Disappointment threatened to strangle him. He tried to roll away but she pushed him back down. "No, you must rest." Michael shook his head. How much time had he lost to sleep? He tried again and this time Martina reluctantly moved off. "The doctor said you must rest," she protested. "Not yet," he ground out, stumbling toward the bathroom.

Michael shut the door and locked it. He sagged back against sink. Breathing heavily he waited while his stomach decided to heave or settle. He heard Martina approach the other side of the door. The flimsy door's hollow construction amplified the sound of her touch. Please, Michael thought to his stomach. Do it now. He needed a physical reason to give Martina for bolting from her and the bed. He couldn't afford to make her feel jilted. It was hard enough to maintain the appearance of marriage when the partner wasn't actually a trained spy. This was taking too long. Michael turned to the toilet and forced the issue.

On the other side of the door Martina worried over the sound of Mikhail's retching. She tried the knob but it was locked. She understood. They were strangers living under one roof as man and wife. There were only two results to a situation such as theirs. She had tried to keep her distance, she knew that she would not have him for long. But when she had seen them carrying him home to her on a stretcher her heart had plummeted. Her world had gone dark and her cousin had caught her before she could hit the ground. Let me help you she whispered to the door. The only answer was the sound of water running in the sink. She sighed. She would give him his privacy and go fetch her son from her neighbor.


	6. Chapter 6

* Chapter 6 *

At the sound of voices Michael dropped to the ground beside a stack of broken cargo palettes. A pair of men crunched across the crust of ice coating the ground. Michael concentrated on making every breath soft and shallow. He flexed his muscles to make his body stiff to minimize shivering. He was 50 yards from the loose section of cyclone fencing he had used to break into the compound.

The patrol guards were discussing the mine collapse. It was amusing to be a third party listening to a story about himself. Apparently Jurgal had been talking and accuracy had not been his concern. Michael listened a few more minutes to a hollywood retelling of how he had rappelled into a flooded cavern to pull Amir from the jaws of death. They had been extremely fortunate in the collapse. The second mine team had been found injured but alive. Other miners had rushed to their rescue and all 5 members of this morning's exploration team had been rushed to the medical facility inside the compound.

The guard's voices faded and Michael cautiously raised his head for a look. The light of dusk was excellent cover. The low angle color spectrum made differentiating colors and shapes difficult. Michael had dressed in form fitting grey tones that enabled him to move quickly and silently. As long as he kept moving he wouldn't regret leaving his heavy overcoat at home.

He sprinted to a back door of a squat cinderblock building. Flecks of white paint pocked the weathered door. The lock on the door was old. The gears inside resisted shifting from their rusted beds. It was difficult to pick and took Michael longer than he liked. Slipping inside Michael hesitated. Training dictated that he lock the door before progressing, leaving little clue of his passing. He weighed the proper action against the appeal of having a quick exit route if he ran into trouble. This shouldn't take long he rationalized. He took a chance and moved forward leaving the door unlocked. The building was locked up but deserted. Michael quickly found the door to the infirmary room the miners had been brought to. He made quick work of the lock and stepped into the room.

Keeping to the dark wall furthest from the bank of shuttered windows, Michael wound his way to the desk supporting a computer workstation. Sliding underneath the desk he pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket. Twisting it on he clamped it between his teeth and set about following the network cables into the sub floor looking for a hub. Finding what he had been looking for, he pulled Larry's phone from his pack. The back had been pried off and Michael had modified it with network plugs. He hooked the phone into the line and tucked it back where it wouldn't be easily seen. Carefully replacing things as he had found them Michael worked his way back to the infirmary door. He paused listening before stepping into the hallway.

Footsteps, dammit. Michael re assessed the room. He slid behind the door to the bathroom and waited. Keys scraped against the door lock and two men drunkenly stumbled into the room.

* Shh,* the big one waved for silence. *Over in that cabinet, quick!*

Michael listened as they grappled to break into a cabinet. He rolled his eyes, drug addicts, perfect! He listened to them twitter excitedly about their brilliant plan to rip off the infirmary while the compound was focused on moving the toxin tomorrow. He glanced through the crack of the door jamb. They were sweeping medical supplies by the armful into a pillowcase.

Michael leaned back hoping he wouldn't need to wait long. His body was already beginning to stiffen from his earlier injuries. He thought back to Larry and wondered how long it would take for Larry to figure out he had access to the information he wanted. Michael smiled to himself enjoying the thought of Larry getting worked up thinking Michael had destroyed the phone and Larry's means of ordering him about. It was a nice bittersweet way to give Larry exactly what he was asking for, while making him mad. And he had done it while saving the village. He hoped that would stick in Larry's craw.

He blinked. He had the faint impression that he was neglecting something. He closed his eyes. He ran back the events of his encounter with Larry. Larry knew the toxin was shipping Wednesday. But hadn't asked for the toxin, he wanted the contact database. Understanding left Michael quivering with anger. Larry had been right all along. He was incapacitated.

He stepped from the screen of the door and bolted. It no longer mattered if the addicts saw him. He sprinted through the building. He took a second to check that the yard was clear before racing to the fence. Night had fallen. His broken rib punished him for every heavy breath. His heart couldn't pump fast enough. Malnutrition had eaten away his overall fitness. His legs went numb. They tingled with each pounding step. None of it mattered because Larry, or rather the military planned to incinerate the whole area, destroying the toxin wherever it lay within the compound. Michael estimated he had 8 hours to evacuate villagers.


	7. Chapter 7

* Chapter 7 *

Sam stepped out his front door and slide on his sun glasses. It was a gorgeous sunny morning. The sky was clear. The air still had a fresh crystal quality. The lower third of the palm tree in the neighbor's yard was still dark from the early sprinkler system. The morning commuters had cleared from the street and the housewife set had yet to emerge to perform their daily shopping rituals.

Sam locked the door and headed for his car. He felt good, clear headed, rested. Completely unaffected by last night's over indulgence at the Kobada bar and grill. He felt untouchable in a physical teenage boy sort of way. Sam slid into the driver seat and the dodge roared to life on the first turn of the key. Sam smiled, he wasn't headed anywhere in particular. He considered grabbing a bite to eat. The Marriot had an impressive buffet and mimosa combination. The Bayside café had a patio that opened onto the beach and good looking waitresses. Sam continued running through the possibilities as he pulled out of his drive and moved down the street. He was waiting for his gut to direct him toward lady luck. The Half Shell mixed an amazing mojito. His cell phone rang, the caller Id read Fiona.

"Hey Fi," Sam answered, his optimism carrying through the connection.

Fiona scowled. She wasn't feeling quite as charmed or perky. She was still lying in bed wondering how 3000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and premium down pillows could feel so uncomfortable. She was definitely paying for last night, but Sam was the last person she wanted to tip off to that fact. He was already paying too much attention. The way she chose to blow off steam was nobody's business but her own. However, the way her morning was headed, a happy Sam meant trouble. She wondered if she could muster enough energy to attempt a civil conversation with Sam. She closed her eyes, did she have a choice? She needed a favor and he answered the phone. "Sam, I need you to pick up Maddie's cake." Sam paused on the other side of the line long enough for Fionna to wonder if the call had been dropped.

"A cake? Like from Safeway?" He asked. It gave Fionna the impression that he was rolling the thought around in his brain trying to decide if he liked the taste.

"Not Safeway," She snapped. "I ordered one from the patisserie on Marina drive, just passed the Studio 60 salon." She had to wait another 15 seconds for him to respond. It made her wonder what he was doing.

"Sam? Hello?"

"Sure," he responded. "That actually sounds good. Where do I take it?"

Fi sighed. Thank you she mouthed. Actually verbally saying thank you would have been out of place with how she interfaced with Sam. It would have been another red flag for Sam to pick up on. "Just keep it cool until tomorrow's party." She instructed.

"Hey Fi?" He added before she could end the call.

She waited while he figured out what it was he wanted to say. He had earned himself a few more minutes of civility.

Sam hesitated. Last night a buddy of his had introduced him to someone who might be capable of filling in some of the missing pieces for the night Michael had been collected into a government issue vehicle with blacked out windows. She worked for the transportation department and seemed to think that she could pull toll information that would give them an idea about where the vehicle had gone. It would be the first real lead they had toward finding Mikey. He was sure Fi would want to know, but he suddenly felt awkward. He should have waited for an opening rather than blurting out "Hey, you know what?" Fi had a talent for making him feel uncool. Ok, he was sure there was a better way to describe it than that. Just thinking the word uncool was, well… He shook his head. How did she manage to rattle him when she hadn't said more than three sentences?

"Sam" her voice hinted that patience was wearing thin.

"Well, no guarantee, but I think I found us a lead on where Michael was taken. I'll know more later when we have Larry's money to pay for it. But the source checks out. I just thought, well, who doesn't like getting a bit of good news, right?" Fiona didn't respond. "Fi?" Sam questioned.

"Great Sam. Tell me more later."

Fi ended the call and reached for the pain killers on her dresser. She hadn't expected good news. Maybe she would survive the day after all. With a few more hours of sleep she felt like she might actually be able to feel upbeat. She would thank Sam later.

Martina heard the door open and closed her eyes in thanks to whatever deity watched over reckless men. She had done her best not to worry that her battered husband was wandering the streets without his coat. She pulled a covered plate from the cooling oven and set it on the table. She smiled with accomplishment, dinner was still warm. She pulled a knife and fork from a battered kitchen drawer and placed them on a folded paper towel beside his plate. She opened the refrigerator door and debated whether to pull out a beer. It would look perfect beside the warm dinner plate. A sterling example of what a good wife she was, however the doctor had instructed no alcohol. She wondered if Mikhail realized he had a concussed brain. She wondered if he knew that he wasn't supposed to be drinking. She didn't want him to think she hadn't paid attention to instructions on how to care for him. The only other options were water or milk. Neither were typical male oriented beverages. She closed the door without making a choice. She pulled a glass from the cabinet and placed it beside the plate empty. It completed the picture and would allow him to choose whether to follow the doctor's care instructions.

Satisfied, Martina turned to the doorway, but Mikhail didn't appear.

"Mikhail?" she called.

The house was silent. Benoit had fallen asleep early. He had been a very tired, over stimulated little boy when she had arrived to collect him. The mine collapse had been difficult on him. Benoit's natural father had been more typical of the region, watchful but aloof towards young children. Mikhail treated Benoit quite differently. He went out of his way to interact with the boy, slipping him extra food when he thought she wasn't looking. Giving him a pat on the back for school work well done. Benoit had begun to refer to him as papa in comments he made to his mother. The intensity of their bond made Martina determined to win Mikhail's emotions.

"Mikhail?" She called again, stepping out into the hall.

Mikhail leaned against the door gasping, his eyes clenched. Pain creased his brow. He had both arms wrapped around his rib cage. "Mikhail!" fear tinged her voice. She hurried to his side. "What is wrong?"

"Where have you been?"

He struggled to get control of his breathing. The pain in his side had worsened. Damn it, he didn't have time for this. He needed to get Martina and Benoit on their way before heading to the small bar that served as the miner's central hub of social connection. He had struggled to come up with a story that would get the mining community to evacuate without causing undue panic or questions. Martina would be the test.

Martina reached out to him. Her touch seemed to ground him. His eyes slide open and slivers of blue focused on her face.

"Where is Benoit?"

"Asleep," She answered. "Your dinner is waiting."

Mikhail shook his head no. "Pack light, we need to leave."

Martina went still. She had not grown up in this town. He first husband had brought her here after her wedding day. But she had heard rumors that there was a very dark side to living in the shadow cast by Orozova's compound. No one spoke openly and rumors could be counted on for exaggeration. However, superstition was a part of their culture and the thought of anything she had heard being true sent ice down her spine. "What is it?" She whispered. She could feel Mikhail's body tremble. Was it fatigue or fear, she wondered.

Mikhail straightened from the wall. "I heard men talking. The collapse has caused some sort of gas leak. There are rumors that the town will be quarantined. Pack light, I'll carry Benoit to the car."

Martina relaxed some what. A gas leak was fairly common in mining. A toxic gas that warranted a quarantine was bad, but an early warning and moving quickly was the best course of action. Martina turned and hurried to throw together their things. She was ready with the door open as Mikhail emerged with Benoit asleep in his arms. Mikhail secured Benoit in the passenger seat, then hurried to help Martina pile her belongings into the back of the small car. He managed to get Martina behind the steering wheel before she realized he was still standing outside the car.

"Mikhail! What are you doing!"

"I need to warn the rest your neighbors."

She grabbed his sleeve before he could disappear into the night. "No!" She protested.

Mikhail bent to address Martina through her window. "Martina, I have to warn them." His voice was calm, confident.

She shook her head, "No!"

"Go to your cousin's. Get Benoit to safety. He needs you to keep him safe." Mikhail was so convincing. How could she doubt him? Martina reluctantly started the car. She glanced at Benoit. If anyone could take care of themselves, it was her Mikhail. She turned back to Mikhail with a renewed confidence. "We will wait for you in Petropavl," She said with a nod. She released him so he could step away. She memorized the picture of his tall frame standing in their driveway, watching until she turned at the end of the block.


	8. Chapter 8

*Chapter 8*

Larry stood beneath the stars on the dark side of the mobile communication tent that had been erected less than 32 hours ago. He stood close enough to hear the conversations going on inside between the commanding officer and his military personnel. The exchange of information was animated. The military component was rapidly counting down to their concluding role. Washington would be happy, another monumental success that would be marked confidential, never to be spoken of again. That would suite Larry just fine. He couldn't get off this sinking boat fast enough. The sooner this mission was over, the less likely it's stench of failure would taint Larry's own personal plans.

Larry gazed out at the dark horizon. A splatter of twinkling lights marked Orozova's compound. The mine entrance was a second smudge at the mountain base, somewhere in between slept the populace of the village. This high up, the wind picked snow up from the higher crags to fall through the air despite the cloudless state of the sky. The temperature was in a free fall. The chill air turned Larry's breath ghostly pale. A dangerous night to be out, but Larry couldn't resist. The wind whispered around him. The anticipated violence attracted him like a deaths head moth to an open flame. It made his heart pound. Adrenaline focused situational details to crystal clarity. Rationalization, morals, social customs disintegrated until the only thing left was your primal self. God, what a turn on. Larry's eyes slid shut savoring the buzz building beneath his skin.

He raised a cigarette to his lips and sucked the smoky nicotine into his chest. He was careful to hold the lit end inward toward his palm. The technique kept the cigarette from giving away his location. He could feel the heat from the smoldering tobacco against his skin. The probability that anyone was out there in the dark, watching from a sniper scope for the circular beacon of a lit cigarette, was slim. But this whole mission had been one screw up after another. Text book had been the term used to describe the mission. The goal was simple, Orozova's security was relatively low tech, and the number of company resources involved had been overkill. Michael had been inserted undercover as a backup to a backup. The thought had been to test him in the field while keeping him far away from the action. Burned spies didn't typically make the transition back to active status. A low risk, real world scenario to evaluate the kid's ability to potentially continue his career as a spy. He should have been pulled out a week ago. But the operative in Minsk had disappeared, another informant had turned up dead, Orozova suddenly shifted his timetable and the decision was made to activate Michael against Larry's recommendation.

The kid's technique was reckless, emotional, he was a risk to the end objective, but he had delivered. Larry wondered if he had been too hasty with the performance evaluation he had sent back to management. The stunt with the cell phone had certainly made his blood boil. What a laugh, he couldn't remember the last time he had called someone else reckless. He suddenly wasn't quite as certain that Michael was damaged goods.

However, he had been the kid's mentor. But that could be read two ways, either he wasn't as impartial as he should be or his training wasn't something anyone could really forget. Monitoring the conversations inside the tent, Larry was aware the moment Orozova's network database was successfully duplicated. Game time he thought to himself. Stubbing out the cigarette, he tucked the butt into a pocket and stepped into the tent.

The stakes were high enough the military had sent an actual general to take the reigns of their involvement. The man was tall, clean shaven, and starting to grey at the temples. Larry didn't bother with any of the military protocol and walked up directly to address General Hays. The man was flipping through a typed report. Larry checked his watch. "I'll be back in an hour," he announced.

The general gave Larry a considering look. "No point. The birds have been called in. You have about fifteen minutes until the fireworks begin."

Larry stared up at the canvas ceiling, "Well, I guess this is going to be one of those hurry up and wait situations for you people. Fifteen minutes isn't long enough to pull my operative."

General Hays flipped backward through the report he held. "This would be the operative you said was…, unpredictable, emotionally distracted, and… unfit to perform?" The general threw the words of Larry's report back in his face.

Larry went dangerously still. He took a moment to consider his response. Their conversation was beginning to draw attention. "I see. So the plan is to drop a hundred pound fire bomb on the guy because he isn't good at his job? That certainly gives the term 'You're fired' new meaning."

General Hay's sighed and gave Larry a pained look. Larry could feel the man slip into the skin of political posturing. Oh hell, Larry thought. The confrontation was careening out of his control and the general was making his appeal to the audience of personnel watching. Drawing a crowd into his point of view wasn't Larry's strength. He was much more comfortable with intimate confrontations where he could simply eliminate the other side if they didn't find a way to agree with him.

"Look, son," the General said, "We all admire that you don't want to leave anyone behind, but we have a specific window to eliminate this nerotoxin. All of the players understand the potential margin of collateral damage. But think of the thousands of innocent lives that would be lost if this nerotoxin finds it's way to the populace. We've been monitoring activity suggesting that the town is evacuating. We have to strike now. We can't take the chance that Orozova will find a way to slip the toxin out under our nose."

Larry gave the general a dead eyed stare, but he didn't press his point. The kid had dug his own grave. He had tried multiple times to warn Michael not to save the village. Larry shrugged, it was time to let explosives shake up the game pieces. That's just how the game was played. He would find a way to use the fallout to his advantage, regardless of the outcome.


	9. Chapter 9

* Chapter 9 *

Madeline wasn't a coward. It didn't matter if you were a congressman or an oversized street thug, she had no problem saying what was on her mind, a quality she had proven on multiple occasions. However, no one lived to be her age without learning a little restraint. At least that was what she was telling herself as she stood gazing into her open refrigerator. The cool air felt good wafting past her face. It smelled faintly of dilled pickle. She made a mental note that the open box of Arm n Hammer needed replacing. The refrigerator fan was humming trying to replace the air hemorrhaging through the open door. Bending close the noise from the fan almost drowned out the voices from the living room. The illusion helped still the tension she had felt building all day.

It was her birthday and she was hiding. Nope, she wasn't ready to confront herself with either of those details. That moment would come soon enough. To rephrase, all the people who "mattered" had shown up to spend the evening with her. Nate and his wife Ruth had flown in so she could meet her angelic new grandson. If you can survive raising kids, grand children are your reward. All that melt your heart sweetness of your genetics in child form without any of the responsibility or worry for their future. Grandchildren were so much better than your own kids. Jesse had brought beer. Fiona still wasn't speaking directly to her yet, but Maddie recognized that Fi was the only one who could have picked out the cake Sam had arrived with. It was wonderful. They were wonderful. At the moment Maddie was even willing to include Ruth in her assessment, after all, Ruth could be forgiven her annoying personality while the grandbaby was around.

Everyone had remembered her birthday except Michael. Maddie had escaped to the kitchen to restrain herself from repaying those lovely people with a raging tantrum over her eldest son missing her birthday. Calm yourself, Maddie cautioned. Her new grand son had just fallen asleep in the guest room. She wasn't going to do anything that would wake the beautiful little boy. She took a deep breath and glanced at the wall clock. 7:38pm, a little over four hours left until the day was over. She swung the refrigerator door closed. How many times had she gone over the topic of her birthday with Michael? How many mother son moments had ended on a sour note because she was determined to get it through his thick skull that no matter how dire your situation, you call or write your mother on her birthday.

Michael's silence hurt like nothing else could. It left her hollow. Bitter. Angry. Frustrated. She had reached her limit and she was done. Maddie reached for her pack of cigarettes and found it empty. She crumpled the box in her palm and threw it in the direction of the garbage can. She didn't care that it missed. She straightened her shoulders and made herself a promise. I'm going to go out there for the next four hours and enjoy the people who love me. If there was no signal or hint from her eldest son in that time, she would take the advice she had given Fiona and find a way to move on.

"Madeline, let me help you with that!" Ruth called, uncurling from the couch cushion beside Nate.

Ruth pulled the carton of ice cream from Maddie's arm and reached for the spoons. Maddie pulled the handful of spoons to her chest protectively. "I can handle it," Maddie leveled a challenging glare at Ruth. Maddie noticed Nate shift uncomfortably in his seat. "But, thanks!" Maddie tacked on with an exaggerated cheerfulness. Ruth nodded, unsure of the undercurrents her mother in law was giving off. Ruth glanced down at the ice crusted carton in her hands. Freezer burn had popped the side seam and milky stalactites had formed down the side obscuring the ingredient details. She took the ice cream to the table wondering if she should offer to run out for something fresher. Maybe she would just opt out for her own piece of cake.

"Did anyone remember to bring candles?" She asked the group. Madeline gave Nate a warning look. Nate jumped up and moved to Ruth's side. "Honey, it's ok, Mom doesn't do birthday candles anymore." He draped an arm around Ruth's shoulders in a protective gesture. Ruth nodded. "Do we sing?" Ruth asked looking up at Nate.

"Of course we sing!" Fiona jumped in directing a wicked grin in Madeline's direction. Sam looked doubtfully at Nate and then at Jessie. None of them wanted to get tangled up in whatever was going on between Fi and Michael's mother. Maddie frowned in disgust but chose not to make a scene. Instead she walked over to Sam and shoved a spoon in his face. Sam took the spoon and Maddie moved down the pecking order to shove a spoon at Jessie.

Fiona sauntered with the grace of a jungle cat, to the dinning table. She was dressed in a dark gold Nanette Lepore ensamble that set off the highlights in her hair and strappy heels that wrapped up her calf. Ruth couldn't help staring, wondering what an outfit like that cost. Fi picked up the large chef's knife lying beside the cake. She ran a manicured nail down the length of the blade and smiled. "Let's sing so I can cut this cake." She was enjoying this small payback for Maddie's confrontation at bridge night.

Ruth launched into the birthday song and everyone followed the charge. It was off key, and seemed abominably long. Madeline cringed, clenching her teeth against the instinct to yell stop thereby ending the misery of what sounded like a dying animal. When the phone rang on the third stanza Madaline launched herself for it like it was a life raft. "Hello?" She held the mobile phone to her ear and waved the birthday song to a well deserved silence. Fiona shrugged and turned her attention to the cake. While Maddie was distracted with the phone Ruth decided to slip the expired ice cream into the garbage. She was sure everyone would thank her for it later.

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

Madeline couldn't hear over the commotion of passing out cake, so she stepped away into the living room. The overly polite female voice on the line sounded like an operator. "Is this a collect call?" Maddie asked.

"No ma'am, This is Shelly Grey with American Airlines. I'm trying to contact a Mrs. Madeline Westen."

"I'm Madeline Westen," Maddie confirmed trying to recall if Nate had mentioned losing luggage, or some other occurrence that would have caused the airline to be calling. They had arrived late this afternoon and she hadn't had enough time between meeting her new grandson and the party to ask how the flight had been. All she could recall was Ruth making a big fuss over the dangers of flying. Apparently a commercial airliner had fallen out of the sky.

"Hello Mrs. Westen. Could you confirm for me the name of your son?"

"Nate? Is this about luggage?" Madeline asked confused.

The voice on the other end of the line seemed to brighten. "Nate? That's your son's name?"

Was the woman daft? Madeline was losing patience with this conversation that seemed to be going nowhere. Why did the woman insist repeating everything she said?

"Yes! Look, what is this about?" Maddie demanded. She was starting to feel the need for a cigarette.

"Oh, Mrs. Westen, I'm happy to say you aren't the woman I'm looking for. On behalf on Amer…"

Madeline cut her off. "What the hell is this? Is this a prank call? You know I could report you to the police for calling at," Maddie glanced at her watch. "10:40 and disturbing my family at home. I have a newborn grandson asleep in the other room. You can't just call people at this hour."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" The woman sounded sincere. "I hope I didn't wake the baby. I really can't release any details at this time. But cherish your family Mrs. Westen, I'm glad your son is safe and sound with you."

Madeline frowned. "You didn't call about Nate? Is this about Michael?" Madeline's pulse began to race. Was she just getting her hopes up to watch them get crushed?

"Michael?" the woman asked weakly.

"Yes, my other son Michael. I have two sons." Maddie snapped. She turned around and realized everyone at the table had fallen silent and was listening.

"Could you hold while I get my manager?" The woman asked, switching Maddie to the hold music before waiting to hear her answer. Maddie sighed and went looking for her back up pack of cigarettes. She had promised Ruth that she wouldn't smoke in the house while the baby was there. She found her backup pack by the door just as a man's voice came on the line.

"Hello, Mrs. Madeline Westen? I understand your son is Michael Westen? Do you have any means of confirming your son's identity Mrs. Westen?"

"I'm not giving social security numbers over the phone to a stranger. How stupid do you think I am?" Maddie responded. This conversation was starting to make her nervous. The tension of the day was back, pounding in her temples.

The calm professional voice hesitated only a moment. "Mrs. Westen, I'm calling to notify you that your son Michael was on American flight 890." The voice paused in expectation.

"Flight 890?" Maddie repeated.

Ruth dropped her plate. Her piece of cake bounced across the floor.

Sam cursed a blue streak. "God damned pansy assed spies! Michael was was no where near that flight. Political deniability my ass! Just some excuse that allows them to sleep at night without ever having to tell the family what really happened."

Fiona went rigid. Nate and Jessie looked back and forth trying to catch on to what was happening.

"Flight 890 went down yesterday over the atlantic. Your son is confirmed as boarding the plane."

Madeline sank slowly to the couch. She watched Fiona bolt out of the house. She thought to herself that Fi shouldn't be left alone. Sam was still thinking and sent Jessie after her. Nate finally understood the situation from reading the pity in Ruth's eyes. He sat beside his mother and collapsed into Ruth's comforting arms. The man on the phone continued speaking. Giving directions and offering his condolence. The airline was offering a small stipend for funerary costs to all the effected families. Maddie wasn't really listening anymore. She simply sat, detached, in shock.

* Author's note: So Sad. Write me a review if you need talking down from the ledge. *


	10. Chapter 10

Fi flung herself into the driver seat. She couldn't breath. Her chest hitched with each tiny gasping attempt. She couldn't hear above the deafening roar of her own panicked pulse. She had to flee, her life depended on it. She scrambled for her purse, dumping the contents on her passenger seat to expedite the search. She grabbed the car keys and jammed the shank into the neck of the steering column. The sleek blue Genesis Coupe's engine roared awake. Fi threw the gear shift in reverse and sent it hurdling backward over Madeline's front lawn. Slamming the brake, she whipped the wheel around. The car slide sideways obliterating a plastic flamingo into a cloud of pink plastic shards. She cuffed the gear shift back into drive and sent the car sprinting recklessly onto the dark asphalt.

"Fi!" Jessie yelled. He lunged for the passenger's door just as the car jumped forward. Jessie cursed and ran for his truck. He pulled the truck out into the road and sped after her. Why? He wasn't sure. There was no way the F150 could keep up with the maneuverability of Fi's coupe. The race was over before it had begun. But it was better than sitting back at the house watching grief eat away at Maddie and her family. Jessie ran the stop sign and kept his eyes moving, searching for Fi's rapidly diminishing tail lights. Where was she headed? Was she the type to hole up and hide from the world? Maybe go home to her apartment and pretend this wasn't happening? Or would she escape, go somewhere that held absolutely no meaning, a place she wouldn't be confronted with the life she was trying to escape.

Jessie ended up searching for hours. Fi didn't go home. She didn't go to Michael's old apartment. Jessie ended up trolling the streets, cruising bar parking lots, resorting to his uncanny luck. It was after two am out near the airport, when a flash of blue parked in a run down motel lot caught Jessie's eye. He circled the block and pulled in pinning the coupe. It was the sort of dive that made you wonder what bonus creepy crawlies would be joining you between the bed sheets. The sign had faded until the only legible piece was the dim neon spelling out motel. The building was a squat 2 story L that leaned in over the parking cement. A dim security light flickered at the far end. Jessie noticed one of the doors on the second floor hung open. Jessie shut off the engine and stepped out of the truck. Broken glass crunched beneath his boot. "Classy place, Fi" he muttered to himself.

Fiona stared at the stained brown cover of the sagging twin sized bed. The shag carpeting was thread warn. It excreted a musky fungal scent in protest of her trespassing. The ceiling sagged, discolored by blooms of water damage. What more had she expected to find? Michael wasn't here. She couldn't flip back the pages of this desolate fairytale to the part where she had found her battered sleeping beauty, waiting for her to wake him. Bottled up tears burned the back of her throat. He was gone and the permanence of that state was more devastating than the first time he had vanished. Her body trembled, every fiber of her soul straining to fight, but fight what? Fight to keep the dead living; the enormity of such an impossible demand was paralyzing.

The sound of the front door hinges protesting gave her a focus for her anger. She gave Jessie a hooded glance from over her shoulder. "Go away Jessie," She warned, her Irish brogue evidence of her emotionally taxed state. "I'm not in a very nice mood."

Jessie studied the room and tried to hide his distaste. "What are we doing here?" he asked. Jessie edged further into the room. He was tired and ready to be done with the day. He was sure that everything would look better in the morning light. In his head he begged Fi to be reasonable. If he could just get control of the situation… Jessie didn't have Michael's patience, or Sam's sense of preservation. His instinct was to get closer, placate her, and contain her so that he wouldn't have to continue the chase. Wrong move Fiona thought to herself with anticipation. This was the kind of temporary distraction she needed.

Fi's backhand sounded like a shot. Jessie stumbled back in surprise, a pale print left over his cheekbone where her knuckles had connected. Fi shifted, poised like a bullfighter waiting for the charge. Jessie hadn't been raised to allow any blow to go unanswered. He lunged for her in a forward tackle. She moved to pirouette and sweep the legs, but Jessie was quick. He managed to pull her with him to the ground. She hacked her elbow into his side. He connected with a knee to the side of her head. They rolled, each trying to gain the advantage. Fi kicked her heel into his jaw. Jessie collapsed sideways with a strangled grunt. Jessie kicked a chair into her path as she sprang for the door. The chair tangled her legs and collapsed in pieces beneath her weight. A sheared off chair leg pierced her hip. She pulled the bloodied stake out and swung it viciously at Jessie. He dodged around her to put himself between her and the door. Both of them were panting. Blood had begun to streak Fiona's leg. "Is that the best you have?" Fi asked with a taunting laugh. Jessie shook his head and leaned forward to hold his side. Fi pushed herself off the ground with the help of the bed frame. She held the chair leg loosely by her side. Jessie eyed it warily. "Truce?" He asked. Fiona tossed her hair back and considered. In a way, physical pain was a relief. It was immediate, consuming, and a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the probability that Michael was dead. But this was Jessie, she had to remind herself that she cared. "All right Jessie, I'll give you ten seconds to walk out that door, get in your car, and leave."

He shook his head, "Not what I had in mind." He muttered.

Fiona took a deep breath, the physical exertion had her feeling considerably better. "Go home and get your sleep. Until I see the body, I won't believe a word those bastards say." Her declaration was mostly bravado. But spoken aloud, the words made a convincing argument.


	11. Chapter 11

*A few days later*

Sam smacked his lips with exaggerated sluggishness. His tongue was swollen and lay awkwardly squeezed in between his teeth. A drink sounded refreshing, but the need wasn't pressing enough to result in action. An electric buzzing from his chest niggled at his anesthetized peace. Sam groaned in complaint. For gods sake, couldn't the world just hit snooze for another ten minutes. Considering the week he'd had…

His best friend went from missing to dead. None of his connections could give him a straight answer on how Mikey died. The records that Mike had been on the airliner were rock solid. Nothing made any sense, but Uncle Sam had already pushed through the final civil administrative rites and sent Maddie a death certificate. Fi had vanished, although Jessie assured him that she was still in Miami. So all things considered, was another ten minutes of sleep really too much to ask for? The buzzing ended allowing Sam to continue to drift in and out of consciousness.

The temperature was on the rise. Sweat had begun to creep along his scalp. Sam wondered why the air conditioner hadn't kicked on. The heat rolled over his skin leaving it raw and burning. The incessant buzzing returned. He moved one arm up to clutch at his chest and was slapped with a face full of sand. Sam jerked up spitting. He wiped grit from his eyes and tried his best to squint details from the painfully bright sunlight. Where? He felt beach sand shift beneath his weight. His head felt soft and swollen. Sam swallowed down the urge to vomit and fumbled for the phone vibrating in his shirt pocket. "Unhuh?" he slurred in answer.

"Sam?" Maddie's voice was too sharp. He pulled the phone away from his ear. The smell of stale urine baited Sam's gag reflex. Shading his eyes he recognized the open dumpster standing watch over him, the back of the Martini Beach Lounge. Damn, Sam rubbed his aching head, it's been a while since the last time he woke behind a bar. Sam gave the tiny voice screeching for his attention a detached glance. The only thing that sounded mildly appealing was slamming down another couple of shots and extending his passed out vacation from life.

"Sam! I know your there! Sam Axe you get yourself…" Madeline dropped the phone. It clattered over the speckled Formica counter and dropped into the sink of stacked dirty dishes. Maddie cursed and fished the phone out of the sudsy gray water. She peeled a soggy chunk of elbow pasta from the key pad, the electronic readout had gone dead. Maddie threw the phone in frustration.

Nate stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. His gaze skipped quickly over his mother before settling on the worn linoleum floor. He didn't speak. He held his elbows tightly to his side, his hands jammed into a pair of black chinos still creased from the department store's shelves. His dark hair stood in spiky tufts, still wet from the effort of standing outside in the Miami heat while a priest spoke his final words over an empty coffin.

Maddie turned to stare out the kitchen pass through at the mass of somber clad elderly ladies that had swarmed to witness her grief. She had retreated to the kitchen to avoid slapping silly the next tearful, simpering condolence. She watched Ruth buzz about offering a platter of bite sized smoky links. Ruth had handled everything. The food, flowers, announcements, the golden oldie genus would be talking about how "nice" the arrangements were for quite some time. The thought turned Madleine's stomach. She turned her back on it and rummaged through her purse looking for a pack of cigarettes.

Nate watched her from the edge of his vision. He wasn't sure what he expected. A pat on his arm and a few moment's of companionable silence like at his father's funeral? His mother had spent most of that grieving period castigating Michael for his absence. Nate twisted his wedding band uncomfortable with her silence. It wasn't normal. He had no idea how to handle this eerie withdrawn version his mother had become. What would Michael do? Maybe something to redirect her attention; probably something new for mom to publically criticize but privately cheer. Nate had never quite gotten the hang of how to do that. His attempts had typically resulted in situations Michael had been required to fix. Nate blinked back tears. In this family, tears were a tool not a response. Nate felt disoriented. Michael had always been the one that "handled" their mother. He had always been the buffer between their father. Michael was the one that made the world safe, the one to fix Nate's worst mistakes. Without him the world felt darker, more treacherous, the training wheels had come off and Nate found himself suddenly aware of the hazards of the road.

Maddie rolled her cigarette between her fingers. "I need your phone." She said holding her hand out at Nate. He glanced at her trying to decide whether to point out that any call from his phone would be long distance. Maddie glared at him "Now, Nate!" she demanded. He pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it over. Madeline jammed her fingers angrily into the buttons. She tapped her toe impatiently listening to the ring. "Sam? Sam!..."

Nate turned and headed out the back door. Might as well be ineffective outside as inside he thought.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sam pulled over to the curb in front to the Westen home. He sat behind the steering wheel allowing the engine to idle. Reluctantly he turned the key and the engine fell silent. The air coming from the AC vents sighed as the fans spun down to a standstill. Sam leaned his head back into he headrest, hesitant to step away from the quickest means of deserting the solemnity awaiting him inside. He had showered, dressed, and done his best to medicate the edge off his hangover, but every moment was touch and go. He could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes. Sam found a mint green pack of gum in the glove compartment and shoved an age stiffened stick in his mouth. It would help keep his stomach settled. Head up, shoulders back! Now march soldier! Sam could hear the words echo from his first drill Sergeant.

Sam had just stepped through the front door when his phone rang again. He checked the caller ID fully prepared to ignore another of Maddie's calls. With Michael gone Sam seemed to be her new favorite person to phone maul. It was an unrecognized number. Sam wound a path through the clusters of elderly women crowding the house and stepped out the back door. He hoped Madeline hadn't noticed him passing through.

"Axe," he answered.

"Sam…" Larry drew Sam's name out with a condescending emphasis.

Not now Sam thought. He pressed his thumb into the pressure headache building between his eyes. "Larry, I guess hearing from you just puts the cherry on top of this lousy day." Sam sounded weary even to his own ears. "Look, I'm busy at the moment, let's chat in about an hour."

Larry made a tsking sound, "Sammy, that's not how this works." Larry said emphasizing each word like he was speaking to a three year old. "I'm paying you to be on my clock. So let me explain to you how your next hour is going to be spent. My package was just dropped off at your place." Larry added emphasis to the words My Package. "So pop on over there and make sure it survived the transport." Sam groaned to himself. He really was not feeling mentally up to dealing with Larry's games.

"Do I need to go into detail about what is going to happen to you and all of your little friends if this job doesn't go well?" Larry asked. "Get moving!" he growled before killing the connection.

Sam stared numbly at the sun damaged leaves of a rhododendron bush in front of him. The day had just gone from awful to worse. Sam tucked the phone into a pocket and gave the area a casual 360 glance to see if anyone was watching before stepping back against the side of the house. He looked down the cement path toward the street. The landscaping around the house provided cover. He crouched past window sills and worked his way to the front corner of the house. There were about 10 yards of open front yard from the edge of the house to his car. He wondered what the odds were that he could make the black dodge without being noticed. Maddie was sure to rip him a new one if she caught him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sam jumped. Madeline stood behind him, arms crossed, with a sour expression.

"Maddie!" Sam greeted cheerfully stepping out of the landscaping back onto the walk way. "I just need to pop back home," Sam winced hearing himself use the same word Larry had just used on him. "I think I left the AC on full blast." Sam could feel his face flush red.

"You missed his funeral and now you're ducking out on the reception." Madeline accused.

"Look, my landlord is going to hand me my ass if I don't go turn it off. I'll be back in ten minutes. You won't even notice I left." Sam bluffed with complete believability. Madeline squinted dubiously back at him.

Nate stepped out from the garage. He glanced at Sam then back at his Mom. "What's going on?" he asked.

Maddie ignored Nate and stepped up to Sam. She poked her finger into his chest. "Sam Axe, you're not driving anywhere. You reek of hard liquor."

"I'll drive you," Nate offered. Madeline turned to glare at her son. "What?" Nate asked with a shrug. He gave his mother an angelic look. "I chauffeur for a living. Besides, Sam said it would only take a few minutes. No one will even notice." Nate said, betraying the fact that he had been eaves dropping. He stepped past his mother and hustled Sam towards the car. Sam knew when to shut his mouth and go with it.

Madeline trailed behind them in disbelief. Sam tossed the keys to Nate and jogged to the passenger side door. Nate slide behind the wheel doing his best to ignore his Mom's disapproval. The engine roared to life, a siren singing to Nate's desperation for escape. Please understand Nate willed. Maddie followed Sam unsure what she was going to do. Sam dropped into the passenger seat and reached for the door. Maddie lurched between the door as it was closing. She shoved Sam over and closed the door behind her. She felt Sam and Nate staring at her in shock. "Well, let's go!" She snapped. If they could escape the funeral, then so could she. Nate shifted the dodge and the car jumped forward.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Sam entered the front door cautiously. The only thing you could trust about Larry Sizemore was that he had an ulterior motive. Finding an item that Larry wanted put on ice was the last thing Sam actually expected to find waiting for him at his house. The fact that the package was 'at Sam's house' was a red flag. He had struggled half the car ride trying to figure out how to warn Nate and his mother about what they had just volunteered for. He could hear Michael in the back of his head laying into him for getting his family involved. Michael would have found some way to dump Maddie and Nate. But protecting the innocent from the unknown, leaving people out of the action was Mikey's gift, not Sam's.

In the end Sam had resorted to filling them in on the truth. It was the only thing his alcohol pickled brain could produce on such short notice. They had a right to know that Larry's job could be or probably was to end Sam Axe. If that were the case, having someone around to drive to an emergency room seemed like a good idea. Sam had tried giving Fi a call. But she hadn't answered and he hadn't left a message. Her silent treatment had begun to burn him. Sure, Sam collected buddies, but none of those connections were deep. They couldn't understand what losing Mike was doing to him. Both Westens had seemed to brighten up at the possibility of danger. Weird family, Sam thought. But he understood, it was easier to fight to stay alive than it was to come to terms with it.

Nate and Madeline waited a few moments on the off chance that Sam would trigger an explosion before following him into his white on white entryway. Sam glanced back at them. He really shouldn't be allowing this. "Don't touch anything and watch where you step." He instructed. They nodded and crept off in separate directions.

"Did you get a dog?" Maddie called from the kitchen.

Sam walked in and stopped short. A large steel dog carrier sat in the middle of his small kitchenette. An envelope embossed with Hallmark's rosette rested on top. Nate joined Maddie and Sam in the arched kitchen entrance to stare. Sam carefully picked the envelope up watching for any sign of tampering. Inside was a cut rate condolence card sporting a setting sun over a non-descript horizon. Sam flipped the card open and tried to make sense of the illegible handwriting.

Sorry to hear about your loss. Thought you (something something something…) need a 'man's best friend'. –L

Nate asked skeptically, "So, the illegal package that you are getting paid to keep under wraps is a dog?"

Sam bent to peer through one of the inch wide venting holes but Nate stopped him. "That's not the kind of dog you stick your face next to." Nate explained. He glanced at his mom considering whether or not elaborate. He was probably about to give away a familiarity with an underground world that no one wanted their Mom knowing they had been involved in. Madeline shrugged. Neither of her boys had been raised to be saints.

Nate took deep breath and turned back to Sam. "These steel panels, the small venting holes, and that heavy pad lock say this is a dangerous animal." Nate stepped around Sam to study the worn spray painted lettering. "And this here, I don't think it's even from this continent. Those letters and the way this thing has been welded together, it's not American. I know what the card says, but why go foreign for a fighting

dog? I'm thinking something wild. There's a pretty good black market for endangered wild game."

Sam nudged the crate with his foot. Something inside was heavy but it didn't move.

"Sounds like it's dead," Maddie observed.

Great! Sam thought irritably. He rolled his eyes up in annoyance. He turned and walked out the laundry door headed for the detached garage. Larry Sizemore… he should have known better. He should have hung up that bar phone the moment he recognized the voice. Sam continued to berate himself internally while fumbling through garage cabinets looking for a bolt cutter. But no, Sam had deluded himself into thinking he could "handle" Larry. But there is no "handle" for a psychopath. Michael couldn't do it, what had possessed a washed out SEAL like himself to try? Effen stupid, Sam growled to the empty garage. Sam's headache was building with every tick of the second hand.

The grief he had worked so hard to submerge last night at the Martini Beach Lounge had begun to seep in through the stress of the day. His friend was dead, the empty coffin dumped six feet under beneath a stone marker. It wasn't the first time he had lost someone closer than a brother. The Navy shrinks called it survivor's guilt, made a pharmacological religion of treating something they rarely experienced from their operational support positions. Sam shuddered. There was always sympathy, a period of time given to heal emotional wounds. But life and those left in it were expected to heal and soldier on. Sam had gone for years saluting that line.

The insidious thought that maybe a person only had a finite number of good friends in their lifetime, had been a career ender. Maybe it wasn't so much that Sam believed his military career was burning through his friends. Maybe it was that each death damaged his ability to form close relationships. The end result was the same, a guy with plenty of buddies and no friends.

Sam found the bolt cutters tucked beneath a heavy canvas tarp. He grabbed for the handle and caught the tarp. Tools tumbled from the cabinet to crash against the cement floor. A glass jar of bolts and screws shattered in a burst of glittering shards. Sam cursed and hurled the bolt cutters toward the open side door. He grabbed the open cabinet door and slammed it. Kicking it over and over for each time it bounced back. The top hinge split and swung askew. Sam's vicious kick missed, and he lost his balance over the loose screws. He landed hard on his forearm. Breathing hard, a soft noise made Sam turn. Nate stood awkwardly in the doorway having witnessed the whole blowup. Sam pushed back to his feet, ignoring the bits of glass embedded in his arm, ignoring the debris littered across the floor. He stalked past Nate, picking the bolt cutter up on his way back to the house. Nate followed without comment.

Sam squatted before the cage door. He rattled the metal and the three of them listened. Nothing. Sam pulled the neck of the lock between the jaws of the bolt cutter. "Get ready," Sam cautioned. Nate had gone back for the canvas tarp. He held it in front of he and Maddie. Nate nodded and Sam strained into the arms until the bolt popped. Keeping the bolt cutters in his right hand Sam jostled the broken lock until it fell. Time to see what's behind door number one. Sam just wished Larry wasn't the one who had come up with the prize.

Carefully, Sam used the bolt cutters to lever the door open. He stared at the half fur half fabric tangle filling the metal crate. "What is it?" Nate asked. He and Maddie inched closer. Sam leaned closer trying to puzzle through what looked like… human toes? Sam dropped to his knees and squeezed himself into the door. He grabbed the stained fabric and pulled. Dread sat queasy in his throat. He reached for the soft underside of the man's jaw searching for a pulse before recognition punctured his control.

Sam cursed, "Christ!" He lurched back slamming his head. Sam lunged for the kitchen sink just as his stomach heaved. "Get Maddie out!" Sam ordered gasping. Madeline frowned. She started to object but Sam cut her off. "Out!" He yelled. Nate hooked his mother's arm and dragged her away. Taking a deep breath Sam pushed himself back into the crate. Please Mike, Sam pleaded trying desperately to feel a pulse despite his own pounding heart beat.

Michael was almost unrecognizable. His uncut hair hung in dark streaks, pooling with crusted blood in the sunken areas of his eye sockets. Bruising shadowed his jaw line. The fur lined parka he was wrapped in was tattered and gave off a acrid burned smell. Sam uncurled Mike's legs, careful not to over stretch muscles and tendons that had atrophied. "Nate," Sam barked. Nate appeared. Sam kept his bulk blocking Nate's view into the crate. "It's Mike," Sam whispered. "On three I need you to take his legs and help me pull him out of the crate." Sam didn't wait for Nate to make sense of what Sam was saying. He moved back into the crate, counted, and tried his best to limit the jostling as Nate pulled.

Michael didn't make a sound. Lying against Sam's tile floor he looked like the corpse the airline had been unable to find. Recognition left Nate collapsed sitting beside his brother. Sam shoved a cell phone in Nate's hand. "Call Fi. Hit redial until she picks up or her mailbox is full. Got it?" Sam ordered. "Tell her to bring any medical supplies she has and not to be followed." Sam gathered Michael's limp form toward him. Like a weightlifter he grunted as he pulled Michael's weight from the floor. "I'm taking him to the bathroom. Don't let Maddie see him like this. Right?" Nate nodded, silent tears streamed from wide shell shocked eyes. "Come one Nate, hold it together. He's not gone yet." Nate nodded again and climbed from the floor. "I can do this," he said for both Sam and himself.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sam eased Michael down onto the tile floor of the master bath. The large floor would give him room to work while providing good light, medical supplies and water. Sam jerked a towel from the towel rail to cushion Michael's head. Where to start… "How about a combat medical training refresher?" Sam chided. Funny, that seemed to be exactly what fate had in mind for him today.

Sam struggled to make sense of having to fight to save Mike's life, with the living hell of the last three days spent mourning his death. Why even risk going through that again? For once, let's just play it safe and take the injured body to an ER. Couldn't they address the awkward "this guy is supposed to be dead" questions after everyone was sure Mikey would live. But Larry had been crystal clear that no one could know what or where the package was. Obvious spy speak for don't let anyone know Michael is alive. Damn Larry. Sam was definitely going to let Fi shoot him for this.

Ok, focus he schooled himself, assessment was first. It was also the first skill to fade from disuse. Sam had absolutely no context to work with. Sam studied Michael's still form. The parka was about two sizes too big and swallowed him in tawny fur trim. Five zip ties clenched his arms together from wrist to elbow. For the moment Sam ignored the restraints to study the bruising circling Michael's neck and shadowing his jaw. Carefully he leaned forward and gently probed Michael's neck searching for damage. Satisfied that the vertebra felt sound, Sam moved to the swollen gash diving deep into Mike's hair line. He made the usual checks for shock, checked the gums, eyes. The number one rule for head trauma was to keep the patient awake, a little late for that. Sam pulled a large med kit from a cabinet beneath the dual sink counter. He pulled out a pair of shears and set to work cutting the parka and plastic bindings off.

Sam worked quickly until the shears caught and tangled between skin and the material of Michael's sleeve. Fumbling, Sam twisted the blade to get it freed and found it stained with blood. Sam dropped the scissors and carefully rolled the sleeve back. The hair of the trim was clotted stiff with blood. It had fused to the inner skin of both wrists. Sam cursed. The zip ties had been acting as a compression bandage and now scabbing had fused the fabric to the wounds. Sam was going to have to soak the area to release the fabric and get a good look. Sam continued more carefully finding another section over Michael's shoulder blade where another clump of material refused to come loose from feverish skin.

Michael woke to the steady burning sensation of pain. Something tugged at him, plucking bits of flesh like a vulture. A chill passed over the bare skin of his torso. He noticed a soft give in the binding at his wrists. He forced himself to lay still, to play possum. He could sense someone breathing, he wasn't alone. One, maybe two people? It was difficult to hear anything over the shrill keening ache in his head. The sudden roar of water from a spout made him jerk. Wait, his training schooled, timing was crucial. Was it a trap? Paranoia was a way of life for spies. It didn't make sense for his captors to be this lax so soon after his last attempt. Michael had mastered the ability to smother the body's reflex to cringe at the feel of hands pulling him from where he lay, one of the benefits of growing up with a heavy handed father. The language being spoken sounded foreign adding to Michael's sense of dementia.

Upon contact, Michael exploded up from the warm water of the bath tub. Adrenaline amplified his reflexes. Michael wrenched his arms loose with a searing tear and pulled the man forward with him into the water. With a twist, water sloshed over the side and Sam was plunged beneath the surface. Sam pushed, kicked, convulsed. His free arm flailed, sending shampoo bottles and soap scattering. The churn of the bath water quickly turned pink. Nothing loosened the steely grip pinning Sam's face against the grate of the drain.

Michael squinted against the light. It seared into his head causing his eyes to water, his vision to white out in pain. Michael trembled with the effort to hold against the man's thrashing. Black motes began to dance along the edge of his consciousness. Almost... it would be a close race between which of them would black out first. Numbness crept it's way up his limbs. The sound of a second attacker came too late.

Nate's arms grabbed Michael from behind, dragging him back. The force on broken ribs left Michael gasping. Sam lurched up from the tub gasping. He floundered over the tub's edge onto the slick floor. Michael clawed for purchase leaving streaks of red where his hands were too slick to gain purchase. "Whoa! Take it easy Mikey," Sam yelled. Michael threw his head back but Nate seemed to have a second sense and shifted out of the way. Nate staggered as Michael threw his weight back towards the wall. "Mike!" Sam stepped in to help Nate.

Michael went still, but Nate refused to let go. This close, Nate could feel the tremors vibrating Michael's core. He could feel Michael straining for each labored breath. Nate pulled him tighter to his chest and blinked back joy and relief at hugging his big brother again. He had truly believed Michael was gone.

"Easy, it's ok." Sam repeated coaxed. He studied his friend.

*Ne oluyor burada?* Michael's voice sounded rough. Sam and Nate looked at each other questioningly over Michael's shoulder.

"Um, in English?" Sam asked. Michael winced, struggling beneath the pain in his head.

The quiet moment was broken by Maddie's voice. "Michael!"

The sound of his mother's voice cut through the throbbing confusion in his head. Michael cursed softly.

Maddie had heard the yelling and commotion from the front step where Nate had left her. She had felt ridiculous standing out there. An old woman, who had raised two boys, could surely handle whatever Sam was keeping secret. But it wasn't her house, so she had decided to smoke a cigarette and give Sam a little space. But hearing a scuffle along with Sam's yelling had blown her restraint.

Maddie stood eyes wide, taking in what looked like the scene of a murder. Bloody handprints marked the white porcelain of the tub. Red streaked the floor and stained the front of Sam's shirt, and Nate held Michael's limp body. Maddie was shell shocked. Her whole world shifted with the realization that Michael lived.

"Sam?" Nate asked in concern as Michael's weight sagged against him.

Sam jumped to action. "C'mon Mikey, stay awake!" Sam focused on Michael. Maddie could take care of herself. Besides, he better equiped to deal with physical wounds than emotional ones. "We need to stop the bleeding. Don't let him drop." Sam reached for the med kit. Maddie stubbed out her cigarette and stepped into the scene. She was done with letting things happen to her. She put a lid on the emotions threatening to send her into hysterics. Her sons needed her. She jerked the medical bag out of Sam's hands. "I can do that," She snapped. She rummaged through the bag and pulled out a package of sterile gauze, placing it in Sam's hand. "Focus on Michael."

Hours later after Nate and Maddie left to catch the end of Michael's wake…

Fi approached the still form lying on Sam's bed. Her heart raced between hope and fear. It had been 6 months, two weeks, and a day since he had been taken, there were stark physical differences. She remembered that last kiss beside Maddie's ambulance. She remembered the feel of his knit shirt stretched across his strong frame, the fascination of feeling the defined curve of his biceps beneath her fingertips, the contrast between the dark intensity of his eyes and the startling brilliance of his smile. Now, he looked used up and tossed aside. Bare from the waist up, she could see each rib jut from his side before plunging back beneath the muscle of his chest. Sam's borrowed pajama bottoms bunched absurdly loose around his narrow hips and the contrast of light and dark now resulted from bruising and sterile white gauze. Fi sat beside him on the bed. The slight rise and fall caused by each breath held her fascination. She touched his side memorizing this, desperate to cauterize the trauma of the last few days with this moment. "Michael?"

Sam answered her from the door. "He's been out for about an hour."

So he has been conscious, she reassured herself. "He looks worse than when they burned him." Sam moved to stand on the opposite side of the bed.

"If you ask me, he looks pretty good for a dead guy," Sam tried to joke.

Fi gave a slight nod. She reached down and took Michael's hand. Bandages wrapped from the base of his thumb almost to his elbow. Fi's brow creased and she held his left hand up toward Sam. Michael didn't stir. "What's this?" She demanded.

"It's not what it looks like." Sam answered with a less than reassuring look. Sam could see the tempest building behind Fi's angry eyes. "He didn't try to kill himself." Sam rushed to defend Michael.

The explanation left Fi staring at Sam in stupefied alarm. "He did what?" She cried, jumping back to her feet.

"No," Sam hurried to explain. "I said he didn't. The wounds go all the way through. Ah, between the ulna and radius, more in line with being impaled than slit." Sam trailed off as her eyes widened with disbelief. Fi had done it again, given Sam the feeling that he was awkwardly blundering the wrong way down this conversation. "Um, so… Not self inflicted is, I guess what I'm getting at. Is that what you mean?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, Sam." Fi answered, speaking with a clipped precision that hinted at the inner turmoil she was fighting to keep under control. "I was asking about the tan line wrapped around his ring finger, but you have my complete attention now. Impaled? Both wrists?" Each syllable was delivered at a steadily increasing decibel until Fi was yelling to Sam's face.

Sam held his hands up in defense. He glanced at Michael worried that the yelling might set him off again. That wouldn't do anyone good. "I don't know," Sam hissed. "It looks like torture, but not everything adds up, or maybe they weren't professionals? We won't really know until Michael tells us… or Larry." Fi turned back to stare with concern at Michael. "But, you know Mike." Sam continued to babble. "He's a real talker. So we shouldn't have any problem interpreting his silence or redirection. But, listening to the few things he does say is a hell of a lot better than the silence of a grave." Sam added.

Fi nodded. "I'll be staying. Be a dear and go get my over nite bag from the car."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

-Dream sequence-  
Michael sprinted across rough asphalt peppered with the glitter of broken glass. His palms bled where he had slid and caught himself. His breathing came hard and fast. He launched himself at a section of six foot cyclone fencing. His young fingers curled around the links. The worn soles of his sneakers slipped as he pulled his scrawny weight up. Vaulting to the other side he changed direction, dodging through overgrown brush and chipped bark ground covering to follow the fencing north.  
The angry shouts of boys twice his age dogged him. He had started a fight. It was difficult to remember why, something about creating a diversion. He needed to evacuate the town and no one would move while a group of Orozova's men remained seated at the bar.  
Wait, that made no sense. Michael wiped the sweat from his eyes. The need to hurry nagged at him. Was it Nate who needed saving? When wasn't it Nate? Michael picked up the pace. The florida sun hung directly overhead. It's incessant heat baking the blue from the sky. He darted from the brush across the street. A car horn protested. The breeze of the vehicle narrowly sailing by felt good on Michael's overheated skin.  
He hopped over a line of white picket fencing, zigged through a congregation of ceramic gnomes and pounded down the uneven sidewalk. Almost there he promised himself. He cut across a neighbor's lawn. The over watered grass squelched beneath his feet, darkening the legs of Michael's jeans with mud. Ducking between Mrs. Gennair's rhododendrons Michael burst onto the driveway just as maw of His father's dodge swung forward.  
With a sharp report, the bumper caught him across the temple and he collapsed in a heap. The engine sputtered to a stop and the heavy driver side door swung open. Michael recognized the need to move, but his body wouldn't respond. His arms flopped like a beached seal. His head rolled limply, unable to break the pull of gravity. The heavy sound of boots approached. A group of men stood above him speaking words his brain refused to process. A masculine voice laughed. Michael shivered against the cold. Blood dripped from his temple to melt the snow beneath his face. His breath feathered white in the frigid air.  
Had his plan worked? He blinked with confusion. He couldn't remember what the plan was. He suddenly recalled an image of large brown eyes staring up at him with an impish glimmer as a young boy filched food from his plate. Nate?  
His father's large hand grabbed his collar and jerked him from the ground. Michael did his best to get his feet beneath him as the ground dragged past beneath him. The sharp smell of alcohol clung to his father and his friends. Frank dropped him in a heap just inside the garage. Michael fumbled against the rough wood of the work bench, desperate to pull himself upright. He squinted against the pain in his head. Any sign of weakness would incite the group of men.  
"Here kid," his father's friend Marv, handed him a half full bottle of Rolling Rock. Michael forced himself to gulp down the bitter flavor. "That's it," Marv encouraged thumping the boy's back heartily. "Your going to be just fine," he cooed inching closer. Quick as a blink Marv grabbed the boy and shoved him forward over the scarred wooden work surface. His heavy breath huffed against the hair at Michael's nape. Michael thrashed, whipping elbows, kicking. He pounded fiercely at Marv's husky frame eventually connecting a glancing blow to the man's face. Marv cursed and stumbled backward clutching his nose. Scarlet seeped between his stubby fingers. Frank Westen laughed heartily. "That kid's a fighter not a lover. He ain't never gonna take what you're trying to give. You'd have better luck with the little one."  
Michael hesitated, vertigo spun details in and out of focus around him. The familiar clutter of boxes and misplaced tools faded. Marv pursued his agenda and dug his elbow in between Michael's shoulder blades. The dim light of the sun filtering through dusty windows became a single bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling. *Bu bir ruhu vardır.* Marv growled. The sweat from running through the muggy afternoon air suddenly chilled Michael's skin. Standing across the table from Michael, dressed in a heavy parka cut to military specifications his father crowed with surprised delight, *This one can fight*. Frank's huge weathered hand swallowed Michael's fist. Missing teeth left gaps in the large man's smile. Michael pulled back in alarm, his head muddling details from different memories. This wasn't his father. With a jerk the man stretched Michael's arm out flat against the stained table. A hush fell, Michael breathed heavily through his nostrils. All eyes stared mesmerized by the movement of a blackened blade stropping the length of Michael's inner arm. The muscle beneath his skin quivered beneath the cold caress. It paused, like a snake, pressing it's weight against the warm fluttering pulse at Michael's wrist.

Michael jerked awake, the movement wrenching broken ribs. He curled to his side against the pain. His body registered pain like any other, the nerves delivering information to his brain. What he chose to do with that information is what set him apart, made him good at being a spy. He had enough experience with the sensation that he could evaluate it for any relevant information then compartmentalize it where he could ignore it. It was sort of like getting into a really hot tub of water. Give your body time to adjust and you could continue with business as usual. But like any complex electrical system, there was always the possibility of overloading the system and blowing a circuit breaker resulting in a loss of consciousness. Michael concentrated on breathing into the pain. The nightmare that had woken him had faded into a fuzzy sense of general unease with the unsettling impression that he had failed to do something. Slowly he eased himself to the edge of the bed to sit.  
The room was dark. Moonlight filtered in the window past the shadow of palm fronds. The digital readout of an alarm clock informed him of the early hour of the morning. An empty chair had been left beside the bed. A pair of strappy sandals had been forgotten, tucked between the cushion and the arm rest. None of the specific details of the room were familiar, but Michael didn't feel threatened. He wondered how long he had before Larry turned up. A central air conditioning unit clicked to life. Michael could hear the fan spin up just outside the window seconds before a blast of cool air rattled from the ceiling vent. His best guess was that he wasn't in Kyrgyzstan any longer.  
Careful of his injuries, Michael leaned over and opened the drawer on the bedside table looking for anything useful. There were pens, paper, discarded notes, a few amature photos of good looking 50 something women posing suggestively for the camera. Michael paused, the photos didn't quite sync with his impression of Larry. Otherwise, the copywrite on the back of the writing pad and the hand written notes hinted that he was somewhere that used American English. He would have to pay attention that he didn't respond in Kyrgyz while he made the adjustment.  
Michael slid the drawer shut and pushed to his feet. Light headed, he quickly grabbed for the wall while his body worked to reestablish blood flow to his brain. Obviously he hadn't been vertical for awhile. He sifted his memory for clues. He remembered the bar fight, started to divert the table of Orozava's men from their "fishing trip". He remembered being shot. Michael touched his head gingerly. From there the time line got a little sketchy. He could recall Orozova's men dragging him somewhere, the conscious moments thereafter. A failed attempt to escape, the beginning impact waves from the first assault of ground to air missiles as they pounded the compound to rubble. There wasn't much after that.  
He still felt like he had forgotten something. It reminded him of how poorly he had performed coming back to active duty off of the burn notice. He wondered if Larry was right and the spy game would sideline him for good this time. It was difficult to imagine himself at a desk, handling younger, more hungry operatives as they played the field. Michael wondered if Larry might have finally underestimated him enough to allow him to get word to his mother for her birthday. He had no idea what the date was. But so far, Larry had squelched the two attempts he had made to get her a non-committal thinking of you birthday sentiment. Only one way to find out, Michael went in search of a phone. There was always the chance that he would finally get lucky.

Madeline startled awake to the ring of her phone. Her arm floundered atop the painted wicker of her bed table trying to activate the small device. She tucked the phone into the crook of her neck as she reached to flip on a curio table lamp. "Hello?" She pulled her wrist watch into bed with her and squinted at the time. 3:23am. Her heart faltered at the probability of bad news. A hesitant silence spoke to her from the other side of the phone. "Sam?" Her voice cracked. "No," Maddie pleaded. She couldn't handle Michael dying a second time.  
"Mom…" The single word was drawn out with a husky hesitance.

Michael sounded spent. He leaned heavily on both elbows over what he now knew to be Sam's kitchen counter. The moonlight played off the bare skin of his back. Pale gauze delineating his shadowed form. He hunched over the phone with anguished intensity. "I'm sorry." He fought back a tremor of self recrimination. He was over a week late. His mind balked, refusing to examine the time gap. He needed the light of day before trying to assign increments of time to the events he had endured. Actually, it didn't matter how tardy he was for his mother's birthday. This was just another shining example of how deficient he was when it came to relationships. "Happy birthday, Mom."

Maddie's eyes glittered with relief. Michael was alive and awake. Her throat constricted. She choked on the enormity of her relief. She couldn't think of any better belated birthday gift than the opportunity to tear up that awful death certificate. Her son was finally home with his friends and family. "It's ok, Michael. Go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning." Maddie's ordered. She hung up and followed her own orders. She lay back against her pillow and smiled tearfully to herself.

Michael ended the connection and gently set Sam's phone down against the counter. He was spent, he wondered if he could make it to the kitchen table without collapsing. He was vaguely aware that he had gained an audience. He thought he had heard the floor boards creak early into the phone call. Michael decided to play it safe. "Sam?" He called.  
Sam stepped from the dark hallway. "Hey Mikey, how ya feeling?" He spoke cheerfully as if it were the middle of the day not 3 something in the morning. Sam flipped on the light and studied Mike's drooping body language. He hooked a chair from the kitchen table, flipped it around, setting it beside his buddy, then continued to the fridge to pull open the door. He watched as Michael eased his weight from the counter to the chair. He was ready to step in if Michael needed him. "How about some eggs? I've got bacon too." He began pulling breakfast ingredients out and setting them on the counter. "Oh, and Fi made me get yogurt. Is that a before or after breakfast food? I can never remember."  
Michael gave Sam an honest smile. "I think that's an instead of breakfast food." He leaned back in the chair and watched Sam pull a skillet from a cabinet above the stove.  
"Well, not today, Mikey. I'm going to make you a Sam Axe special. I just happen to specialize at breakfast foods." Sam pulled a carton of OJ from the fridge and struck a jaunty pose. "It's one of the many charms that keeps the ladies coming back for more." Giving Michael his best estimation of a smoldering look, Sam pulled two glass tumblers down from a cabinet, set them on the counter.  
"Well it had to be something, because those pajamas are ridiculous." Fi interrupted. Sam rolled his eyes and reached for a third glass. Fi yawned and blinked at the kitchen light. She looked incredible in a cotton tank and a pair of boxers. Michael watched her cross the kitchen and jump up to sit on the counter beside him. She tucked one leg beneath her and stuck the other pedicured foot in Michael's lap. He gently rubbed his thumb over her instep. His fingers trailed over the top of her foot to circle her ankle. He looked up to find her examining him. He gave her a small, almost shy smile. She was the only woman he had ever met that made him feel unsure of himself. She reached over to give his hair a tug. "Whoever has been taking care of you has been doing an awful job. You need a haircut!"  
Michael chuckled. He leaned against Fi's leg. He was startled at how good it felt to be home. Sam smiled and turned to lay strips of bacon into the heated skillet.

Author's note:  
And I think that concludes my little story arc. In the summary I promised to get Michael home and I actually did it.  
Kudos go out to all of those that wrote me a review. The feedback helped keep me motivated and actually made me consider fleshing out parts that I hadn't initially considered. (Like that scene between Maddie and Fi at the bridge game, or the scene between Jessie and Fi at the hotel)  
I realize there are plenty of issues left to resolve, but it's going to take a new story arc with new characters to get there. So I'm thinking of a sequel. It will probably be a little more Fi and Michael relationship slanted. Maybe something titled Life After Death? But it's going to take me a bit to get going.  
Thanks again everyone.


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